So I am one month into my stay in BsAs, and these are the things I still don't completely understand:
- Why dog-walking is such a popular job.
- Why they don't eat wheat bread.
- Why the only two things I can't buy are peanut butter (expected) and BLACK BEANS (?)
- How buying helado (ice cream) became such a serious thing.
- How people survive when you don't leave for the clubs until after 2am.
- How and where to find and buy books.
- How to correctly buy fruit without offending the grocery worker.
- How all the girls are so skinny.
- Why stoplights go green-yellow-red-yellow-green.
- Why sometimes taxis and colectivos don't have to stop at red lights.
- Why people don't pick up their dogs' poop on the sidewalk. It's a bother to all of humanity here.
- Why the government doesn't produce more coins.
- Why the colectivos don't use a card system- it would take care of the coin problem!! (seriously, EVERYONE hoards coins for the buses. there are never enough.)
- Where mullets come from.
- Why when you buy a bottle of water or can of soda, they give you a straw for it.
- Why marriage isn't a big thing here.
- The absolute insane frenzy of fútbol.
- Why keys have to turn twice.
- Why having a clean house is so important.
- How kisses on cheeks can be so impersonal (they are!).
- Why alfajores are so popular. They just AREN'T good.
- Why café cortados are so... small.
I think if a person can thoroughly understand or accept these things, they are truly Argentine. As much as I would like it all to be normal by the time I leave, I don't know if it's possible... haha.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Monday, March 26, 2007
Favorite Place Yet
It’s an old five story building that has holes for windows - but not all the holes are covered with panes - and if panes, there are definitely no screens. If you expect a toilet seat or toilet paper, you’re out of your mind. The floors are as dirty as any Buenos Aires sidewalk or street, littered with cigarette butts and dirt and…? Graffiti covers the interior walls, demanding justice, communism, freedom, peace, revolution, with photos of Che, and a few knocks on good ol’ G.W. Other walls have detailed murals. In the hallways, venders sell homemade alfajores, cheap sandwiches, sweet breads filled with marmalade, and bottles of Coke. Others sell Argentine literature. Outside the entrance, dread-locked men and women play guitars while selling wooden/leather jewelry or books on revolutions. Inside the building is an open space. At all hours, there are people playing chess and drinking Quilmes beer or smoking marijuana, or often times doing all three. Sounds of wooden flutes and folk guitar songs float into the unscreened windows. This building has been the birthplace of political and social revolutions in Argentina, and continues to be a liberal political hotspot. What is this place?
This is my university. University of Buenos Aires, Facultad de Filosofia y Letras.
15,000 students of all ages crowd the halls regularly, eager to take advantage of their free education at the best university in Argentina. Students steal broken desks from neighboring classrooms and pack into the sticky, non-air-conditioned rooms. When stolen desks fill the classroom, students sit on the floor, stand against the walls, and flood out into the hallway, straining to hear the words of their poorly paid but brilliant professors who can’t move around the classroom due to the flood of desks and bodies. When students ask a question, they attempt to phrase it perfectly, treasuring the opportunity to hold the respected professor’s attention; they hang on his/her every word. Students smoke in the doorways of classrooms because they really want to hear the lecture, but can’t resist a cigarette.
The students are “muy distinctos” (aka there are none like them anywhere else). They walk into random classrooms to interrupt and make announcements, or to hand out fliers about political happenings (Saturday there was a demonstration and march through the city) and political movies that are shown in our courtyard under the hazy cloud of marijuana smoke. In the courtyard, they paint signs calling for actions of justice and then hang them in the entrance. They tape and plaster papers for meetings and demonstrations all over the walls and doors.
If I make it through my classes with B’s, it will be a miracle, but if I make it through “la UBA” in general, it will strengthen me more than any other experience of my life.
I love this place. It’s raw. It’s beautiful in its idealism -- beautiful in its dirty floors, broken windows, graffiti covered walls. The student body is beautiful in its desire to learn, to change society, and in its boldness. La UBA is a mess. “Un kilombo,” they say here. But it’s Argentina at heart, and there is no place I would rather be.
This is my university. University of Buenos Aires, Facultad de Filosofia y Letras.
15,000 students of all ages crowd the halls regularly, eager to take advantage of their free education at the best university in Argentina. Students steal broken desks from neighboring classrooms and pack into the sticky, non-air-conditioned rooms. When stolen desks fill the classroom, students sit on the floor, stand against the walls, and flood out into the hallway, straining to hear the words of their poorly paid but brilliant professors who can’t move around the classroom due to the flood of desks and bodies. When students ask a question, they attempt to phrase it perfectly, treasuring the opportunity to hold the respected professor’s attention; they hang on his/her every word. Students smoke in the doorways of classrooms because they really want to hear the lecture, but can’t resist a cigarette.
The students are “muy distinctos” (aka there are none like them anywhere else). They walk into random classrooms to interrupt and make announcements, or to hand out fliers about political happenings (Saturday there was a demonstration and march through the city) and political movies that are shown in our courtyard under the hazy cloud of marijuana smoke. In the courtyard, they paint signs calling for actions of justice and then hang them in the entrance. They tape and plaster papers for meetings and demonstrations all over the walls and doors.
If I make it through my classes with B’s, it will be a miracle, but if I make it through “la UBA” in general, it will strengthen me more than any other experience of my life.
I love this place. It’s raw. It’s beautiful in its idealism -- beautiful in its dirty floors, broken windows, graffiti covered walls. The student body is beautiful in its desire to learn, to change society, and in its boldness. La UBA is a mess. “Un kilombo,” they say here. But it’s Argentina at heart, and there is no place I would rather be.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
A tango dancer is born.
1. Ohmygoodness I love the tango. I can't handle it. It's the most amazing dance ever. I am obsessed and my only desire is to be the best tango dancer in the entire program. It's ridiculous. I'm competitive about it. (I'm laughing but I'm so serious... which is ridiculous, I know.) Today during my first ORGANIZED tango lesson, I fell in love with it. I've had a lesson before, you ask? Yes, from an old Argentine man at the Tango Festival. How perfect, no? A man in his seventies, Italian, Argentine, and STILL hitting on me even though he is "grande". Typical porteño. But I learned the basic tango from him! So today, when I learned more and felt confident, it enchanted me! Oh, and just for the record, I now know the "gancho" which is the move where the woman swiftly and gracefully flicks her leg behind and wraps it around the guy's. Yep. It's hot. and super fun. Watch out, world.
2. Piazzolla: the jazzy type of tango music. Last night Katie and I returned to a trendy local jazz place to hear a piazzolla trio for the second time. It's pretty much the sweetest jazz place ever. See photos and listen at theloniousclub.com.ar The music pulled depths from me that must have been buried and ignored... I've had a really difficult time finding music that is in time with my emotions and thoughts... My mind and insides are tumultuous these days. But piazzolla... It's tango roots are strong and forceful, but playful and full of passionate emotion; the jazz in it is creative and rythyms clash and melodies mix... and its essence is "right in time with me" (lucinda williams). You know how sometimes you connect with music so deeply that it makes you feel vulnerable? like if someone saw you while listening, they would see your inmost feelings? That is piazzolla for me. Try to find some online to check out.
2. Piazzolla: the jazzy type of tango music. Last night Katie and I returned to a trendy local jazz place to hear a piazzolla trio for the second time. It's pretty much the sweetest jazz place ever. See photos and listen at theloniousclub.com.ar The music pulled depths from me that must have been buried and ignored... I've had a really difficult time finding music that is in time with my emotions and thoughts... My mind and insides are tumultuous these days. But piazzolla... It's tango roots are strong and forceful, but playful and full of passionate emotion; the jazz in it is creative and rythyms clash and melodies mix... and its essence is "right in time with me" (lucinda williams). You know how sometimes you connect with music so deeply that it makes you feel vulnerable? like if someone saw you while listening, they would see your inmost feelings? That is piazzolla for me. Try to find some online to check out.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Way to Die #3: Futbol games.
I just wrote another entry {two in one day!} that you can check out beneath this one... they're both long, I know (sorry) but worth reading, I think. They describe this city well.
Yesterday we went to our first Argentine futbol game. There is NOTHING to compare it to in the United States. NOTHING. It was Lanus v. Racing. We met an Argentine Saturday night who invited us to go with his friends. I fell backwards on the couch out of excitement when he asked us. We've been told by everyone that we can only go to a futbol game here with Argentines who know how to do it, or else we would die(after last night, I think they were speaking at least 70% literally when they said die), so I'd been anxiously awaiting an Argentine guy friend.
First, we took a train to the stadium. Let me set the atmosphere: thirty young guys, ages 14-30, singing futbol songs at a deafening volume (each team has its own songs); drinking wine from boxes; smoking marijuana and cigarettes; leaning out of the train windows; banging the doors, walls, windows so hard that slabs of train wall were swinging loose, so they banged those too; actually the slab of wall was being slammed by a 10 year old singing kid. Chaos. The five of us were for the other team (Lanus). We asked Marcus (our friend) what would happen to us if we started singing Lanus songs. He said they would jump us. We stayed silent and in a corner. When our stop came, the five of us were escorted off the train by three guards in bullet proof vests, carrying crowd control shields, like you see in photos from the 60s riots, and automatic rifles (I don't know guns, but they were three feet long and terrifying-looking). Marcus' friends grabbed us and escorted us out of the station. Apparently there is a train stop for each set of fans.
There are also two entrances to the stadium that holds 30,000 and is always full. During the game. No one sits; we are stuffed on top of one another so that sitting is impossible; they sing songs and chants constantly so that the entire stadium is at a deafening roar; there are thirty ft. high fences surrounding the field complete with barbed wire circles on it, and barbed wire on top, but that doesn't stop the 8 year olds from sitting on top of them for the best view; the same armed guards surround each fans' section (we tried them counting but stopped at 100); when people jump during chants, the stadium literally moves; fireworks are set off from the crowd; we throw paper and wave bags made into balloons; when Racing trips Lanus, the entire crowd screams "Hijo de puto" in unison (son of a bitch) and then proceeds to curse the players entire family; cheering for one's own team is ALWAYS encouraging (different than US); we waited 45 minutes while Racing fans were let out first; five armed guards on horses, two squad cars, and over twenty armed guards on foot stood outside our exit and walked with the crowd back to the trains and buses; we heard police's warning gunshots (of fights) as we walked to our colectivo.
We were told last night's game was incredibly tranquil, especially in comparison to the legendary Boca/River games. They're the two most popular teams, and supposedly if the two crowds of fans were to intermingle during the game, people would die. Boca and River play each other in May. I'm in.
Yesterday we went to our first Argentine futbol game. There is NOTHING to compare it to in the United States. NOTHING. It was Lanus v. Racing. We met an Argentine Saturday night who invited us to go with his friends. I fell backwards on the couch out of excitement when he asked us. We've been told by everyone that we can only go to a futbol game here with Argentines who know how to do it, or else we would die(after last night, I think they were speaking at least 70% literally when they said die), so I'd been anxiously awaiting an Argentine guy friend.
First, we took a train to the stadium. Let me set the atmosphere: thirty young guys, ages 14-30, singing futbol songs at a deafening volume (each team has its own songs); drinking wine from boxes; smoking marijuana and cigarettes; leaning out of the train windows; banging the doors, walls, windows so hard that slabs of train wall were swinging loose, so they banged those too; actually the slab of wall was being slammed by a 10 year old singing kid. Chaos. The five of us were for the other team (Lanus). We asked Marcus (our friend) what would happen to us if we started singing Lanus songs. He said they would jump us. We stayed silent and in a corner. When our stop came, the five of us were escorted off the train by three guards in bullet proof vests, carrying crowd control shields, like you see in photos from the 60s riots, and automatic rifles (I don't know guns, but they were three feet long and terrifying-looking). Marcus' friends grabbed us and escorted us out of the station. Apparently there is a train stop for each set of fans.
There are also two entrances to the stadium that holds 30,000 and is always full. During the game. No one sits; we are stuffed on top of one another so that sitting is impossible; they sing songs and chants constantly so that the entire stadium is at a deafening roar; there are thirty ft. high fences surrounding the field complete with barbed wire circles on it, and barbed wire on top, but that doesn't stop the 8 year olds from sitting on top of them for the best view; the same armed guards surround each fans' section (we tried them counting but stopped at 100); when people jump during chants, the stadium literally moves; fireworks are set off from the crowd; we throw paper and wave bags made into balloons; when Racing trips Lanus, the entire crowd screams "Hijo de puto" in unison (son of a bitch) and then proceeds to curse the players entire family; cheering for one's own team is ALWAYS encouraging (different than US); we waited 45 minutes while Racing fans were let out first; five armed guards on horses, two squad cars, and over twenty armed guards on foot stood outside our exit and walked with the crowd back to the trains and buses; we heard police's warning gunshots (of fights) as we walked to our colectivo.
We were told last night's game was incredibly tranquil, especially in comparison to the legendary Boca/River games. They're the two most popular teams, and supposedly if the two crowds of fans were to intermingle during the game, people would die. Boca and River play each other in May. I'm in.
A Romance Ignited
Wednesday, I vowed to learn how to love Buenos Aires. Thursday, Buenos Aires began learning how to love me, and viola! A romance ignited. It went like this:
Katie and I shared an umbrella on a street corner while colectivos (buses) and cars splashed trashy water onto our flip-flop/tan-lined feet, and the guy under the umbrella next to us chuckled at our misfortune. As our two umbrellas crossed the street, we began a delightful but awkward conversation; it could be nothing but awkward with three people and two umbrellas squeezing through the crowded and under-repair sidewalks of Buenos Aires. The 5’7, mid-twenties, earring-wearing, mullet-sporting porteño was Buenos Aires personified: unabashedly friendly, chatty, animated, and passionate without measure. We quickly learned that Cristian writes and plays tango music, and that the underground language of Buenos Aires, lunfardo, is part of his normal vocabulary. (Can you get anymore porteño?) At one point, we were suddenly being serenaded. From under his umbrella, Cristian serenaded us with a tango. In the rain.
Later we asked if he liked Buenos Aires rock, he told us, “No! We have to get back to our roots!" (roots being tango) To emphasize his point, he jumped into the street and, stomping on the ground, continued, “This is just land! Land! Nothing else! We have to know our roots!” His passion almost caused his death (refer to previous blog entry Ways to Die) but he made us understand the power of societal roots. Sounds crazy, I know, but the depth and passion with which he spoke about life was brilliantly intellectual. When we parted, we walked one block and realized we really wanted him as a friend. We turned and took off running through the muddy sidewalk puddles to catch up to him five blocks later. We asked when his band was playing (we needed somewhat of a reason to return) and if we could go listen. He excitedly wrote his email and phone number, invited us to go bike riding through the city and out in the country if we would like, and invited us to go have a beer with he and his friends. Oh, Buenos Aires…
But that is not all, friends. The day continued as we waited out the storm by hiding in an antique bookshop, chatting with the old bookseller about sociology, poetry and history, while he smoked and introduced us to his “cueva de amigos muertos” (cave of dead friends… aka: the books that crowded and fell in piles off the shelves). We later met Katie’s host mom and her bf to listen to an Argentine guitarist play folk music, eat homemade empanadas, and drink red wine. It was El Día Internacional de la Mujer (International - in all but USA apparently - Day of the Woman), and Victor (the bf) treated each of us to a fourth kilo of helado.
As I got off the colectivo and began to walk six blocks to my house, hoards of fútbol fans crowded the streets, having just left the stadium of River – one of the two biggest teams in Buenos Aires. They were adorned in jerseys and smelled like beer and fútbol excitement. I was in heaven. I arrived home to find flowers and a card from my mom and sisters in my room, wishing me a “¡Feliz Día de la Mujer!” I climbed into bed smiling, and told Buenos Aires that perhaps this relationship would work out after all, and fell asleep.
Katie and I shared an umbrella on a street corner while colectivos (buses) and cars splashed trashy water onto our flip-flop/tan-lined feet, and the guy under the umbrella next to us chuckled at our misfortune. As our two umbrellas crossed the street, we began a delightful but awkward conversation; it could be nothing but awkward with three people and two umbrellas squeezing through the crowded and under-repair sidewalks of Buenos Aires. The 5’7, mid-twenties, earring-wearing, mullet-sporting porteño was Buenos Aires personified: unabashedly friendly, chatty, animated, and passionate without measure. We quickly learned that Cristian writes and plays tango music, and that the underground language of Buenos Aires, lunfardo, is part of his normal vocabulary. (Can you get anymore porteño?) At one point, we were suddenly being serenaded. From under his umbrella, Cristian serenaded us with a tango. In the rain.
Later we asked if he liked Buenos Aires rock, he told us, “No! We have to get back to our roots!" (roots being tango) To emphasize his point, he jumped into the street and, stomping on the ground, continued, “This is just land! Land! Nothing else! We have to know our roots!” His passion almost caused his death (refer to previous blog entry Ways to Die) but he made us understand the power of societal roots. Sounds crazy, I know, but the depth and passion with which he spoke about life was brilliantly intellectual. When we parted, we walked one block and realized we really wanted him as a friend. We turned and took off running through the muddy sidewalk puddles to catch up to him five blocks later. We asked when his band was playing (we needed somewhat of a reason to return) and if we could go listen. He excitedly wrote his email and phone number, invited us to go bike riding through the city and out in the country if we would like, and invited us to go have a beer with he and his friends. Oh, Buenos Aires…
But that is not all, friends. The day continued as we waited out the storm by hiding in an antique bookshop, chatting with the old bookseller about sociology, poetry and history, while he smoked and introduced us to his “cueva de amigos muertos” (cave of dead friends… aka: the books that crowded and fell in piles off the shelves). We later met Katie’s host mom and her bf to listen to an Argentine guitarist play folk music, eat homemade empanadas, and drink red wine. It was El Día Internacional de la Mujer (International - in all but USA apparently - Day of the Woman), and Victor (the bf) treated each of us to a fourth kilo of helado.
As I got off the colectivo and began to walk six blocks to my house, hoards of fútbol fans crowded the streets, having just left the stadium of River – one of the two biggest teams in Buenos Aires. They were adorned in jerseys and smelled like beer and fútbol excitement. I was in heaven. I arrived home to find flowers and a card from my mom and sisters in my room, wishing me a “¡Feliz Día de la Mujer!” I climbed into bed smiling, and told Buenos Aires that perhaps this relationship would work out after all, and fell asleep.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
For Claire.
Información antecedentes: Bueno, hoy mi vida acá es [otra vez] confundida y loca… no había estado un día bueno. Terminó toda la constancia la cual he esperando por semanas – necesito cambiar las universidades, por lo tanto, necesito cambiar todo en mi vida. Bueno, estoy cansada, frustrada, un poco enojada, y no quiero estar acá en este momento… Pero entonces algo pasó…
Yo estaba parada en una esquina, esperaba para entrar un banco para sacar dinero, cuando me di cuenta que habían burbujas en el aire. ¡Burbujas! Me encantan burbujas. En la otra esquina, había un hombre hacía burbujas. Flotaban por el aire, el viento del tráfico las empujaban arriba, encima de los autos y colectivos, en frente edificios lindos españoles, sobre las cabezas de los peotones… que lindo fue. Qué lindo… Me alegró muchísimo. Burbujas. Un hombre grande (viejo) italiano porteño, hacía burbujas. Me alegró.
Translation:
Background information: Well, today my life here is (again) confused and disorganized… it has not been a good day. All of the constancy I have been waiting for for weeks ended today – I have to switch universities, therefore, I have to change everything in my life. So, I´m tired, frustrated, a bit angry, and I don’t want to be here right now… But then something happened…
I was standing on a street corner, waiting to enter a bank to take out money, when I realized there were bubbles in the air. Bubbles! I LOVE bubbles. There was a man on the other corner, blowing bubbles. They were floating through the air, the wind from the traffic pushing them up, above cars and buses, in front of beautiful Spanish buildings, above heads of pedestrians… how charming it was. How perfect… It made me really happy. Bubbles. An old, Italian, porteño (person from BA) man blowing bubbles. It made me happy.
Yo estaba parada en una esquina, esperaba para entrar un banco para sacar dinero, cuando me di cuenta que habían burbujas en el aire. ¡Burbujas! Me encantan burbujas. En la otra esquina, había un hombre hacía burbujas. Flotaban por el aire, el viento del tráfico las empujaban arriba, encima de los autos y colectivos, en frente edificios lindos españoles, sobre las cabezas de los peotones… que lindo fue. Qué lindo… Me alegró muchísimo. Burbujas. Un hombre grande (viejo) italiano porteño, hacía burbujas. Me alegró.
Translation:
Background information: Well, today my life here is (again) confused and disorganized… it has not been a good day. All of the constancy I have been waiting for for weeks ended today – I have to switch universities, therefore, I have to change everything in my life. So, I´m tired, frustrated, a bit angry, and I don’t want to be here right now… But then something happened…
I was standing on a street corner, waiting to enter a bank to take out money, when I realized there were bubbles in the air. Bubbles! I LOVE bubbles. There was a man on the other corner, blowing bubbles. They were floating through the air, the wind from the traffic pushing them up, above cars and buses, in front of beautiful Spanish buildings, above heads of pedestrians… how charming it was. How perfect… It made me really happy. Bubbles. An old, Italian, porteño (person from BA) man blowing bubbles. It made me happy.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Ways to Die in Buenos Aires
For those of you concerned with my safety, I thought I should give you a security update. I have discovered there are two ways I could die here:
1) Traffic. The drivers of buses, cabs, and autos have absolutely no mercy for pedestrians. I have to learn a whole new way of crossing streets.
2) Starvation. The women here don´t eat. Seriously. I have heard multiple statistics about eating disorders and Buenos Aires (such as: it´s the #2 city for eating disorders in the world, and 1 in 10 women struggle with them). However, I can´t figure out if it´s eating disorders or just the culture... because EVERYONE is stick thin. I don't understand how something can be a disorder when the entire society takes part in it; it´s normal!
However, I have already decided this will not bother me -- there are too many bread and ice cream shops to try! Seriously though, my thoughts are not ¨Oh my goodness, I need to lose weight!¨ Instead, they´ve been a healthy ¨Give me food NOW! I'm going to eat whether you do or not!!¨ haha. I´m so grateful for a healthy self-image... haha. Oh, life...
1) Traffic. The drivers of buses, cabs, and autos have absolutely no mercy for pedestrians. I have to learn a whole new way of crossing streets.
2) Starvation. The women here don´t eat. Seriously. I have heard multiple statistics about eating disorders and Buenos Aires (such as: it´s the #2 city for eating disorders in the world, and 1 in 10 women struggle with them). However, I can´t figure out if it´s eating disorders or just the culture... because EVERYONE is stick thin. I don't understand how something can be a disorder when the entire society takes part in it; it´s normal!
However, I have already decided this will not bother me -- there are too many bread and ice cream shops to try! Seriously though, my thoughts are not ¨Oh my goodness, I need to lose weight!¨ Instead, they´ve been a healthy ¨Give me food NOW! I'm going to eat whether you do or not!!¨ haha. I´m so grateful for a healthy self-image... haha. Oh, life...
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Good times.
Short Chapters of this Entry (choose what you want to read!!)
1) Drinking and Driving
2) "the Shit"
3) Nightlife and Coffee
DRINKING and DRIVING
Sunday-Wednesday we were in Mendoza, the wine capital of Argentina (7th in most wine consuming countries in the world). It was in-credible. What was even better was taking BIKES through the bodegas (vineyards) and from one to another. Yep, bikes, sun, vineyards, wine-tasting. Flipping amazing. You wish you were with us. I learned this though: When having only consumed two crissonts at breakfast six hours earlier, it is not smart to49 drink a glass of wine relatively quickly and then ride a bike. Nothing bad happened, it just didn't feel so great... haha. So we stopped, let it settle, and continued to our second bodega -- which was the oldest in this town (1850s) and completely family-run. Again, in-credible.
"THE SHIT"
I know, I know... I just cussed. But let me explain. When used in this context, the word "shit" is a title -- to be "the Shit" is to be the coolest of cool people - to be popular, known, hip, trendy, wanted... this is what it means to be "the Shit." To give you an example, I have never been the Shit. It just doesn't work for me in the States. And that's okay. My good friend says she was the Shit in seventh grade, so I figure living vicariously through her suffices. However.... here, my friends, we are the Shit. Three nights ago, we were in a bar and turned to find some twelve-year-old kid at the window next to the table, taking photos of each gringa (3), and smiling a ridiculously goofy smile. En serio. While drinking and riding bikes, a truckload of guys (I'm talking a BIG truck -- with 20 something guys, 2-3 times our height) drove past, all yelling different things in Spanish, all whistling, and then --- it started raining things -- they were THROWING leaves and berries at us. American guys, FYI: throwing leaves at girls riding bikes is not a good way to get their attention. So, I know, trucks and kids aren't really exciting, but literally EVERYONE wants to talk with us or watches us as if we are some strange TV show.
NIGHTLIFE and COFFEE
For the past 7 of 8 nights, I have gone out to bars and stayed out until at least 3am. Three AM is really really early here. My body is actually starting to get used to it! SO different than my life in Chicago... can I get an Amen to that?? haha. That's what you do here: eat dinner at ten, hang out until 2, go out and talk until 4, go home. It's out of control. After night #4, I decided the only way to survive is to drink coffee. And, yes, I know, you can't believe it, but I am now a consumer of coffee. What IS this place??? I'm going to return a coffee-drinking, bar-hopping, stay-out-all-night woman. Yikes. I've also decided that I really don't enjoy drinks other than wine... so while everyone stays up drinking, I have sampled every juice possible. Let's hear it for all-natural juice!!
I am now in Buenos Aires -- as of this morning... Check back in tomorrow for updates...
1) Drinking and Driving
2) "the Shit"
3) Nightlife and Coffee
DRINKING and DRIVING
Sunday-Wednesday we were in Mendoza, the wine capital of Argentina (7th in most wine consuming countries in the world). It was in-credible. What was even better was taking BIKES through the bodegas (vineyards) and from one to another. Yep, bikes, sun, vineyards, wine-tasting. Flipping amazing. You wish you were with us. I learned this though: When having only consumed two crissonts at breakfast six hours earlier, it is not smart to49 drink a glass of wine relatively quickly and then ride a bike. Nothing bad happened, it just didn't feel so great... haha. So we stopped, let it settle, and continued to our second bodega -- which was the oldest in this town (1850s) and completely family-run. Again, in-credible.
"THE SHIT"
I know, I know... I just cussed. But let me explain. When used in this context, the word "shit" is a title -- to be "the Shit" is to be the coolest of cool people - to be popular, known, hip, trendy, wanted... this is what it means to be "the Shit." To give you an example, I have never been the Shit. It just doesn't work for me in the States. And that's okay. My good friend says she was the Shit in seventh grade, so I figure living vicariously through her suffices. However.... here, my friends, we are the Shit. Three nights ago, we were in a bar and turned to find some twelve-year-old kid at the window next to the table, taking photos of each gringa (3), and smiling a ridiculously goofy smile. En serio. While drinking and riding bikes, a truckload of guys (I'm talking a BIG truck -- with 20 something guys, 2-3 times our height) drove past, all yelling different things in Spanish, all whistling, and then --- it started raining things -- they were THROWING leaves and berries at us. American guys, FYI: throwing leaves at girls riding bikes is not a good way to get their attention. So, I know, trucks and kids aren't really exciting, but literally EVERYONE wants to talk with us or watches us as if we are some strange TV show.
NIGHTLIFE and COFFEE
For the past 7 of 8 nights, I have gone out to bars and stayed out until at least 3am. Three AM is really really early here. My body is actually starting to get used to it! SO different than my life in Chicago... can I get an Amen to that?? haha. That's what you do here: eat dinner at ten, hang out until 2, go out and talk until 4, go home. It's out of control. After night #4, I decided the only way to survive is to drink coffee. And, yes, I know, you can't believe it, but I am now a consumer of coffee. What IS this place??? I'm going to return a coffee-drinking, bar-hopping, stay-out-all-night woman. Yikes. I've also decided that I really don't enjoy drinks other than wine... so while everyone stays up drinking, I have sampled every juice possible. Let's hear it for all-natural juice!!
I am now in Buenos Aires -- as of this morning... Check back in tomorrow for updates...
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